Cornflowers
by CoryphaeusRex
Summary: Reiche wants what he can't have, so he drives all day to find a substitute. Oneshot Reiche PlanchettexOC. Slash, prostitution, underage sex, all the usuals. Read at your own risk.


**Author's Notes & Disclaimer: **You'd **know **about it if I owned Left Behind. **Really**, you would. **Anyway**, over the months I've known him, **Reiche Planchette **has gone from averagely **average **man of nothing much to a **tragic **figure who keeps all the **rent boys **in Romania in business. **What **a transformation. Anyway, Reiche wants what he can't have, so he drives all day to find a **substitute**. There is **slash**. There is **prostitution**. There is **paedophilia**. There is **present tense**. That's about **all **you need to know about this fic. Read, review, and **enjoy**.

(o.o)

Reiche Planchette winds the window of the car down, to wave cheerily at the inhabitants of the cottage, who have just treated him to a meal fit for a king. Viviana is a surprisingly good cook, all things considered, and Reiche feels that more than makes up for the clumsiness of her hospitality.

Viviana waves enthusiastically in return, a half smile on her face- that sort of smile one gives to a departing guest just before one starts criticising their manners and conversation. The teenage boy standing beside her does not wave, only watches as the car retreats down the drive. He is tall, but without any traditionally associated with his age. A moment or two before the car turns the corner, Nicolae appears to grow bored with the farewell, and disappears into the cottage.

His aunt at least has the courtesy to wait until she is out of Reiche's sight.

The Romanian sighs and leans back onto the expensive cream leather seats, as the early summer breeze sweeps over his face. After a few minutes, despite the warm setting sun, it becomes too cold, and the window is returned to its default position.

It was a nice enough evening, once the ceremonials were taken care of and the festivities began. Nicolae, having just turned fourteen, allowed himself to laugh a little, to relax from his habitual solemnity. Even if most of his mirth was due to Reiche's clumsiness, or for some other vaguely malicious reason, it was nice to see the boy laughing, enjoying the foods and presents that were given.

Nicolae rarely smiles. It's just one of those things. Reiche watches the boy almost all of the time, and he has long since noticed this. Nicolae smirks sometimes, but there is a fine line between a sly twitch of the mouth and a full-out, baring-the-teeth grin. The party has been a welcome change.

Reiche barks a few instructions to his driver, and settles down comfortably on the back seat.

He falls asleep with Nicolae's smile burned into his vision.

He drifts back out of sleep as the car slows down, indicating that it has left the lonely highways and entered the built-up, high-traffic area of the city. The driver, tactfully not making conversation, drives down a maze of run down streets, finally arriving at the entrance to a small and dingy back alley.

Reiche emerges from the car, without a word to the driver. The man knows his job well enough. He will be required to return at around six, and undergo a similar silent journey back to his employer's apartment block.

Reiche has done this many times.

As the car drives off, he makes his way down the back alley, fearless of the dark and the sounds and flickers of movement it contains. Deeper in, when the shadows have redefined the meaning of darkness, have emerged in an alternate spectrum of anti-light, he reaches a door that is just about identifiable as having once been green. There are no windows in the wall, but if there were they would be showing a red light. Reiche approaches the door, letting the shadows of the recess swallow him up, and knocks twice. That is all it takes.

The door swings open, and Reiche does not flinch as a cloud of noxious-looking smoke billows from the gap, escaping into the only-slightly-cleaner air, hovering along the ground like a bad special effect. The toxins having been largely expelled from the building, he steps inside. There is no argument, no introduction, no challenge. There is very little conversation here at all.

Reiche wanders along the hall, the wallpaper damp and peeling, in some cases having peeled right off and lying now across the floor in great loops of mould. Arsenic-green highlights the only bit of colour remaining on the floral frieze. He steps over the despairing rolls, determined as always. Nobody stops him. It seems as though there is nobody here, not even the mysterious sprite who opens the door.

A staircase presents itself, to his right. If Reiche had not been here many times before, he would not have trusted the staircase with his weight. It creaks as he ascends.

The décor is slightly nicer here, but the margin is small. There is still mould on the wallpaper, but it doesn't look to have given itself up for dead just yet. Reiche strides along the long landing, towards a door at the very end that is slightly ajar. Light, and indeed it is slightly red-tinted, shines from the gap.

He pushes the door open with gentle fingertips, steps through, and shuts it to behind him with the same delicacy. Meeting the eyes of a tall, thin man reclining in a chair in the corner of the room, Reiche nods. He is known here, and he is welcome. He and his money.

The boys are scattered around the room, in mismatched and beaten-up armchairs, chaise-longues and couches. They are all very different- the proprietor likes to cater to all tastes- but they all have the very same eyes. Sad eyes, vaguely hungry and pleading and pathetic. Reiche is not moved.

He meanders through the room, strolling nonchalantly between the chairs, his eyes trailing over each boy he passes.

Almost all are dismissed in moments. A dark-haired waif with hair that falls over his haunted eyes merits a few more seconds than most, as does a sandy-haired youth sitting uncomfortably in what appears to be a school uniform. Most of the boys are nervous, slightly hunched over or curled up, their gazes apprehensive. Some are trembling, and much as Reiche would normally like looking at them, now they are not what he is searching for.

He does not find it underneath that scarlet-tinted light. In the shadows, in the corner of the room, just as Reiche has almost given up hope, he spots a sign of life- the tell-tale spirals of cigarette smoke drifting outwards.

There is a boy who dares to hide himself away, and sits in the corner of the room, watching what goes on. He is not averse to selling himself, quite the contrary, but he is unusually selective. He likes those who work to obtain his services, those who are willing to look, and to find what they are looking for.

Reiche is also very selective.

The boy is reclining on a battered black couch, breathing steadily and deeply, unlike some of his co-workers, who are almost gasping in fright. He wears a loose shirt, stained and dirty from incessant wear, and a pair of jeans that have definitely seen better days. He is smoking, elegantly and carelessly all at the same time. His hair is blond, and just about to reach the stage where it will be a constant irritant to him, the perpetual getting-in-the-eyes stage.

His eyes are startling, cornflower blue.

They aren't the same as the other boys'. Sure, he has a soupcon of hopelessness, of self-loathing and disgust, but above that silt swirls a thick river of complete arrogance. He is worth every lei he asks for, and receives in payment.

There is no conversation. There is never any conversation, and now, particularly, it is not needed. Reiche has found what he wants, and the boy is hardly going to say no to the rich man who has spent so much time looking for him. The boy rises to leave, and the hollow eyes of the other children follow them all the way across the room and into the hall.

Reiche closes the door behind him.

The boy leads him down the long landing, to a dingy white-painted room with a door that appears to have suffered some violence in its past. It closes firmly enough, even if it does take some persuasion.

The window is broken, and the boy is sitting on the windowsill, calmly flicking cigarette ash out of the jagged hole. He grins quickly at Reiche, and after a last drag on the cigarette, throws it out of the window, blowing triumphant smoke after it.

He rises from the windowsill, and approaches Reiche with a practised grace. He moves almost as well as Nicolae does, but whereas the boy in the cottage has always, and will always, have that elegance naturally; this boy seems to have to work at it.

The boy is very close to Reiche now. His bright-sky eyes meet the older man's, and for the first time, he speaks. His name is Dmitri, he tells the man, with a coy smile. He doesn't ask for Reiche's name.

To be honest, Reiche doesn't care. Polite introductions bore him- he has no time for them and he does not wish to make the time for them. He will call the boy whatever he likes, whatever his name is. Dmitri accepts this- many people have called him by many names in the past. The customer is always right.

Reiche tells the boy to take off his clothes. It may be a blunt way to go about it, but there is no need for any prelude. There is only one boy with whom Reiche would relish the foreplay, would be happy to slow down and take his time over. And he is forbidden to touch this boy.

As he watches Dmitri's amateur striptease, Reiche dispassionately attempts to gauge the boy's age. He can't be any older than fifteen, and that's close enough to work with for the moment.

Dmitri is naked now, in the hot summer night, standing before Reiche, every inch of his pale skin on display. The whiteness of his skin is disappointing, but Reiche supposes in the dim moonlight, even the light golden tan of Nicolae's soft skin would probably silver and gleam.

He sets rather wide parameters for this sort of thing. If he didn't, he would never be satisfied and he would go slowly mad.

Reiche beckons the boy to him, and Dmitri approaches him willingly, allowing himself to be enfolded in Reiche's arms, letting the man embrace him, run his hot hands all over the boy's equally warm skin. Reiche breathes in the scent of the boy- beneath the cigarette smoke, he smells slightly musky, almost exactly how Reiche imagines Nicolae must smell. But a few notes of fragrance can make the difference between the finest perfume and cheap eau de toilette.

The man lowers his face to the curve of Dmitri's neck, his lips brushing over the boy's soft skin, as he inhales the fake, cheap scent that is almost and not quite like the one in his dreams.

Dmitri responds, leaning into Reiche's touch, sliding his thin hands up the man's arms to his shoulders, arching his back to press their bodies together. It hasn't been asked for, but Dmitri is _very_ good at guessing what his clients want. He's rarely wrong.

And he isn't wrong now, as Planchette sighs in satisfaction, and begins to plant soft kisses all along his collarbone- little butterfly kisses that tingle and then disappear and are gone.

Reiche doesn't attempt to kiss Dmitri on the mouth- maybe he knows that Dmitri doesn't like it, maybe he doesn't like it himself. He kisses all over the boy's face, but every time he gets near those delicate lips, something comes over him- it seems he isn't worthy to kiss the boy, or something equally ridiculous. Money is worthiness, and Reiche Planchette is practically made of money.

The man is murmuring something under his breath- Dmitri can feel his lips moving in different syllables, but cannot hear what he is saying. It sounds like a prayer, or a mantra. Reiche lets go of Dmitri, the warmth of his arms replaced by the heavy warmth of the air in the room. The man sinks to his knees before the teenage boy, looking up at him with a gaze that echoes the hopeless despair of the boys in the red-lit room down the hall.

Reiche takes Dmitri's hand and moves it to his own head. The boy winds his fingers into the short black locks, detachedly stroking the man as one would stroke a favourite pet. Reiche sighs happily- it's all a game, a pretence, but in the dim light, it's an echo of his dreams, a fulfilment of sorts, to keep him going until the object of his affections finally comes of age.

The day seems an eternity away.

And even then, there is no guarantee that Nicolae will favour him, will stand before him as Dmitri is doing, will deign to touch him and honour him with this proximity. Reiche hopes, eternally hopes, but a small part of his soul fears that this will be all he has to hold onto- encounters in seedy establishments with boys who only slightly resemble his beloved.

The man closes his eyes, and rests his cheek against Dmitri's flat stomach, turning his face to kiss gently at a point just above the boy's navel. Dmitri squirms slightly- a day's worth of stubble tickles slightly on his sensitive skin. Reiche kisses him again, kisses a hot trail down the boy's almost-hairless body. Just before he reaches his intended destination, he drags his eyes up to Dmitri's dispassionate gaze, pleading.

Dmitri is not surprised. He has had clients like this before. Tired of being in charge, they want to lower and debase themselves beyond all hope of redemption, and they choose him because he is the only boy in the place with an ounce of spirit, and the willingness to play this side of the game. He nods, a carefully constructed callous gesture that brings a tiny sigh from Reiche's mouth.

The man kisses him again, softly, as those hot palms slide up the back of his legs, holding the slender young body still. Dmitri is prepared, as prepared as he can be, for the sensation of Reiche's mouth around him, but it still comes as a shock. It is not often that the men are concerned about Dmitri's satisfaction, and when the other boys creep into his room and indulge in forbidden pleasures, they tend to rely on their hands. Anything oral is too much like work.

The immediate sensation of that hot mouth almost shocks him into coming straight away, but he manages to suppress the instinct. The longer this lasts, the more money he will earn.

There is also the fact that nobody has gone down on Dmitri for a while, and he wants to savour the experience. Attempting to ignore the feeling of being vaguely weak at the knees, Dmitri continues to caress Reiche's head and face, concentrating on that almost to the exclusion of everything else.

Reiche is good at this. Dmitri is not exactly surprised. He has seen the man in this place before, usually leaving the bedrooms of the stronger, spirited ones that once were here, with marks that must have been difficult to explain away. That is, if there was anyone to explain them away to. Reiche doesn't seem like the married type to Dmitri. He doesn't know why. It possibly has something to do with the expert way the man is bringing him off. Someone as practised as this surely wouldn't settle for a woman.

This time, though, Reiche is not interested in marks. He just wants the privilege of this intimate experience, the memory to edit and change and playback again and again in the lonely, sticky nights after too much palincă.

Dmitri is having a hard time concentrating now, and his hand clenches in Reiche's hair, fingernails digging into his palm despite the obstacle. He is only young, and despite having been in this business for a number of years now, is too full of hormones to develop any sort of resistance or stamina. Reiche can hear the noises the boy is making; strangled, helpless little sounds, without words or consonants of any description.

The boy's voice gets louder, and Reiche's work gets faster, until with a final treble yell, Dmitri gives in, and comes deep in the man's throat. Reiche swallows, almost greedily, savouring the taste of the boy in his mouth, closing his eyes and pretending.

Reiche rests his forehead on the boy's stomach for a moment or two, as the young body trembles before him. Breaking the silence, he releases his hold on Dmitri's thighs, and stands up, dusting the knees of his trousers down.

He thanks the boy, his voice husky and silky, like dark chocolate, and pays the extortionately high price without so much as a pause. He strides out of the bedroom, not looking back, and descends the rotten stairs with a lot more joy than he ascended.

His car is waiting.


End file.
